The Remaining Third Chapter Sixty-One: The Black Membership Card

Sometimes, the more years one accumulates, the less joy one feels; the older we grow, the fewer smiles we wear. As children, even a single lollipop could bring happiness that lasted an entire day. Yet when we become adults, even if an abundance of delicacies is laid before us, we can hardly manage a smile.

Inevitably, as the years pass, the carefree innocence of childhood is crowded out by the ceaseless filling of the heart with desires, until one is swollen into adulthood. The more one wants, the less one receives; it becomes nothing but a torment of the self—how then can happiness endure?

Take Huang Mao at this very moment. Before meeting Zhang Xiaoman, he was famished, and would have drooled at the sight of a plain steamed bun. But after receiving two hundred yuan and a bank card from Zhang Xiaoman, he found himself sitting before a perfectly cooked, fragrant plate of twice-cooked pork and yet had no appetite at all.

No matter how much money was on the card, Huang Mao would not squander it. After all, it was borrowed to fulfill a wish; he would have to find a way to repay Zhang Xiaoman in full, and this was the very weight that robbed him of his appetite—a burden that pressed on him.

The two hundred yuan was his own. He had planned to order a few more side dishes, perhaps some strong liquor, to treat himself. Yet when the twice-cooked pork was set before him, he was already weary of it and lost all interest. Whether it was Zhang Xiaoman’s heartfelt advice or Han Mei’s earnest admonitions, their words echoed endlessly in his mind.

Huang Mao was not the sort to become instantly fervent for a small favor, ready to risk his life for another. But at this moment, he nevertheless felt a surge of loyalty—a willingness to sacrifice for those who understood him.

Zhang Xiaoman had given him more than just a bank card; it was an opportunity to do something for He Wei and Han Mei.

What is emptiness, truly? It is the agony of being needed by no one.

Over the years, Huang Mao had tasted the bitter coldness of the world. No one cared about him, and no one needed him. He lived like a frog at the bottom of a well, even the old tortoise who once passed by was gone, leaving only himself, endlessly croaking, “Alone, alone.”

Now, Zhang Xiaoman had given him a chance to fill that emptiness, and so Huang Mao’s mind brimmed with thoughts of self-sacrifice. When one is destitute, if someone offers a helping hand, most with a soft heart will want to repay that kindness in any way they can.

Absentmindedly, he felt the black membership card and the slip of paper in his pocket. Huang Mao’s mind began to work; he quickly shoveled a few bites of rice into his mouth, picked out every piece of meat from the twice-cooked pork, leaving only a plate of garlic shoots, wiped his greasy lips with a napkin, slapped a twenty-yuan note on the table, and called out heartily, “Boss, take the money, keep the change!”

But life quickly poured cold water over Huang Mao’s hot-blooded enthusiasm.

The street stall owner grabbed Huang Mao’s arm, waving the twenty-yuan bill coldly. “Of course there’s no change… One plate of twice-cooked pork, eighteen yuan; tableware fee, three yuan; rice, two yuan; you also used a napkin—one box of napkins is two yuan. Total is twenty-five; you still owe me five!”

Huang Mao was stunned, his eyes wide. “Tableware costs money? And… I only used one napkin, but you’re charging me for the whole box? That’s unreasonable!”

“Why shouldn’t tableware cost money? Don’t I use water to wash dishes? Don’t I have to buy detergent or disinfect them? All of that costs money.” The stall owner pointed at the napkins. “As for the box, you opened it, so you have to pay. If you think it’s a loss because you only used one, you can take the rest, but you won’t pay a cent less. That’s my principle!”

Huang Mao opened his mouth but could find no words to argue, his face flushed with embarrassment. He took back his twenty, pulled out a red banknote, and slapped it on the table. “Fine, fine, I admit defeat—this is enough, right?”

“It’s enough,” the owner’s face split into a grin. “So no need for change, right?”

“In your dreams! You pay for what you consume; I want an official receipt,” Huang Mao spat on the ground. “Every cent must be returned; that’s my principle!”

The street vendor’s face turned as sour as if he’d swallowed a dead fly. “Who gives official receipts at a street stall…”

“If you don’t give me a receipt, I’ll call and report you right now!” Huang Mao snorted. “Just the other day I had barbecue and got one—why should your stall be an exception? If you don’t issue receipts, you’re just avoiding tax. Today you’re a street vendor, tomorrow a hotel owner, and if everyone avoids taxes, who will build the schools and hospitals? People like you are, at best, sly, and at worst, parasites on society!”

The stall owner stared dumbfounded at Huang Mao, then handed back the red bill. “Forget it, I don’t have time to argue. I’ll write off the small amount; just don’t make a fuss about the receipt…”

“Why should you write it off?” Huang Mao stood with hands on his hips, not reaching for the money. “You think I need your five yuan? Twenty-five is twenty-five; I won’t pay a cent less. And you’re not getting out of issuing a receipt—today I’m absolutely sticking to this!”

Ten minutes later, the stall owner, sweating profusely, managed to find two receipts, one for twenty yuan and one for five. He watched as Huang Mao meticulously checked their authenticity, scratched off the prize area, and then left humming a tune. The owner spat in Huang Mao’s direction. “Penniless and so troublesome! Bet you’ll be eating street food your whole life!”

Huang Mao, of course, did not hear the owner’s curses, or he might have turned back for a detailed argument. Strolling toward the hospital entrance, he bought a rattle drum at a toy stall, shook it twice—dong, dong, dong—and his heart bloomed with joy, already picturing himself amusing his godson with it.

He tucked the drum carefully into his pocket, exhaled a deep breath, massaged his cheeks, and put on his usual roguish grin before swaggering toward Hou San’s emergency ward.

Just as he reached the door, he saw Zhu Dachang carrying a basin of yellow liquid. Pinching his nose, Huang Mao made way for him, working hard to maintain a smile. “Fat Brother, you’ve worked hard!”

Zhu Dachang glanced at him without expression and went straight to the restroom.

Huang Mao pursed his lips, shoved his hands in his pockets, and entered the ward. He saw Hou San lying on his side, engrossed in a book. Peering closely, he saw the cover and chuckled, “Third Brother, how refined! Even in such a noisy place, you can read comic books so calmly. I’m impressed!”

“You don’t know anything,” Hou San lowered the book, revealing his cunning, fox-like eyes, and pointed to the red title on the cover. “Look carefully, I’m reading a classic—Romance of the Three Kingdoms.”

“Comic book version of the Three Kingdoms, right? I have a few sets at home too.” Huang Mao put on a knowing look, pulled up a stool to sit at the end of the bed, and cleared his throat. “I loved reading the Three Kingdoms as a kid…”

Hou San gave him a sidelong glance. “Tell me, which character do you like?”

“It has to be Zhao Zilong!” Huang Mao perked up, his face animated. “A spear of silver, flexible and strong, seven charges in and out, straight to the enemy’s heart—a true hero!”

Hou San gave him a strange look. “Seems you like the illustrations as much as I do.”

Huang Mao coughed, shifted from the stool to Hou San’s bed, and said ingratiatingly, “Third Brother, I really did have urgent business earlier—it wasn’t about being stingy with the medical fees…” He pulled the black membership card from his pocket. “See? I’m ready with a premium card for Jiangnan Good Times. Once you’re better, I’ll take you and Fat Brother out for a good time—as an apology.”

Hou San glanced at the card, swallowed, but feigned detachment. “No need for all that. Earning money is like picking up dirt with a needle, spending it is like pushing sand with water—hard either way, I understand…”

“Not extravagant at all,” Huang Mao’s eyes sparkled. “A friend gave me this; I’m just sharing the blessing. Besides, there’s already a package loaded on it—it’d be a waste not to use it.”

Hou San pressed his lips together, then smiled. “I’ve always hated waste. Thrift is a virtue. Well, I’ll have to help you spend it, then. Is there a deadline for the package? I’m still not quite recovered.”

“No rush,” Huang Mao waved his hand. “There’s no expiration, but it’s best to use it by next Monday. After that, I need to return the card to my friend.”

“Monday it is,” Hou San nodded. “My injuries should be mostly healed by then—just in time to change my luck.”

“It’s a deal!” Huang Mao laughed, pocketing the black card. After a pause, he said hesitantly, “Third Brother, there’s one more thing… Can I have my ID back? I’ll bring it again when you’re discharged for the paperwork. It’s not that I don’t trust you—we’re sworn brothers, what’s mine is yours—but I need it for something now…”

“Come on,” Hou San pulled the ID from under his pillow and handed it over. “You helped us; it’s only right you get it back. I was already planning to return it.”

Huang Mao took his ID with a bow. “Thanks for understanding…” He stood up. “I won’t keep you from resting—let me take care of business, then I’ll bring you some fruit. I came in such a rush I forgot! Next time, I’ll make up for my lack of courtesy.”

“We’re family; no need for such words,” Hou San waved him off. Seeing Zhu Dachang return with the chamber pot, he discreetly pointed at Huang Mao’s pocket and instructed, “Dachang, walk him out.”

Catching the signal, Zhu Dachang wiped his hands on his clothes, put down the chamber pot, and turned with a goofy smile. “Brother Huang Mao, let me see you out…”

“No need, no need,” Huang Mao declined. “It’s just a few steps to the entrance, Fat Brother, you should stay and take care of Third Brother.”

But Zhu Dachang placed one hand on Huang Mao’s shoulder, and with the other, slyly slipped the black membership card from Huang Mao’s pocket and into his sleeve. “Come on, it’s just a few steps. I’ll be right back.”

Huang Mao’s lips curled in a knowing sneer, which quickly turned into a grin. He pretended not to notice, and under Zhu Dachang’s gentle guidance, left the hospital, hailed a cab, and waved goodbye from the back seat.

7017k